


The King and the Commoner

by plumedy



Category: The King's Speech (2010)
Genre: Angst, Assassination Attempt(s), Fluff, Food Poisoning, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 09:44:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5285975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumedy/pseuds/plumedy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'The King and the commoner and my heart is too full to speak.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King and the Commoner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lynndyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynndyre/gifts).



> Dear recipient,
> 
> have a very merry Christmas. I loved all your plotbunnies so much I have entirely failed to choose between them, and so I decided to make the story into a mini-series of ficlets. My beta*, [MrsHorowietzky](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsHorowietzky), also wishes to thank you for the prompts. We've both enjoyed creating this work enormously.
> 
> The quote in the summary is from Mark Logue's book about the relationship between the real Bertie Windsor and Lionel Logue. I find it beautiful, though you're very right when you say that the movie is its own story that has, in some regards, little to do with the historical original.
> 
> The IRA really did attempt to assassinate George VI once; I have time-shifted this event for my own purposes.
> 
> *also co-contributor (I can't thank her enough for her marvellous ideas and help with the characterization) and, in her own words, "a fellow super duper hardcore The King's Speech fan".

I.

The armchair is pleasantly soft, if a little too small for Bertie’s liking. He's curled up, and everything looks bigger than it is - Lionel’s writing desk, the dark red couch that had clearly known better times, the ash-stained mouth of the fireplace. He can see a delicate sunbeam creeping along the floor some three feet away.

It would even be relaxing if he weren’t in so much pain. _Oh._

“Bertie! Bertie, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, Logue, leave me be,” he groans, blinking. “It’s fine.”

He knows very well that this protestation is absurd, and it comes as no surprise that Lionel thinks the same. Bertie’s collar is unbuttoned, and a warm dextrous hand is anxiously feeling his chest.

“I’ll call a doctor.”

“No need.” Bertie regards the flaps of Lionel’s beige jacket with a gloomy stare. “Let me lie here for half an hour, and I’ll be all right. I just don’t feel like standing up, that is all.”

“Don’t _feel_ like standing up?”

“I think I might throw up if I d-do.”

“It’s the stomach, then?” The hand is on his shoulder now. The thin gilded frames of Lionel’s reading glasses glint sympathetically. “Well, I'm not leaving you here. You look like you're about to fall off this armchair. Come on now.”

Bertie weighs about what you’d expect from a five foot nine naval officer in the prime of his age, and the thought of Lionel dragging him across the room makes him feel terrible. So he stands up and, with Lionel’s arm around his shoulders, wanders forward reluctantly and sinks on the couch.

Lionel hands him a folded blanket. It is an old one, soft to the point of fragility, its colour something vague midway between brown and grey. Someone has sewn the initials _LL &ML_ on it with a bit of golden thread, and it’s both comforting and ridiculous.

“The cook has baked a Lady Baltimore cake for dinner,” Bertie explains in a guilty whisper, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow. His ears are scarlet. “I can never resist the bloody thing. Pathetic.”

“Understandable,” Lionel objects. “Considering your, er, your upbringing, I don’t imagine you ate an awful lot of desserts as a child. Anyone’d get a sweet tooth in your place.”

He walks towards the door and sticks his head into the corridor.

“Myrtle, darling, could you bring us some peppermint tea?”

“What kind of king am I, then? A five-year-old boy has more self-control.”

“On the contrary, your majesty,” says Lionel, settling down on a chair beside the couch. “People are partial to all sorts of things that are bad for them. I myself like to drink strong coffee after eleven in the evening, and my wife regularly scares herself to death with poorly written ghost stories.”

“I don’t imagine there’s anything m-majestic about me just now, Lionel,” Bertie remarks irritably. Lionel looks at him in surprise. “Don’t call me that, p-please. It makes me feel like an idiot.”

A pause.

Bertie all but hides under the blanket, the crown of his head the only visible part of him.

Lionel thoughtfully runs his fingers across the backs of the books on the nearby bookshelf.

In comes Myrtle, carrying a tray with a cup of coffee for Lionel and a tall glass of peppermint tea for Bertie. Strangely enough, though intimidated to the greatest degree by Elizabeth’s presence, she’s perfectly fine with Elizabeth’s husband’s. Even when he’s curled up in a most undignified way on her couch.

“Take the tea, if you please, your majesty.” She lowers herself in front of the couch, holding the steaming glass in her hand. There’s a sigh from under the blanket. _Bertie_ , mouths Lionel, widening his eyes at her. _Call him Bertie_.

She is still not quite accustomed to this now that he’s their king as well as Lionel’s patient. But she understands.

“Bertie,” she says, and he raises himself into a half-sitting position. She gently puts the glass into his hands and lingers a little. “I’ve put some honey into it. It’s good for digestive complaints.”

The coffee, made from the Camp Coffee mix, has a generous amount of chicory in it, and the honey is so ancient it’s crystallized to the point where it doesn’t quite dissolve in the tea, but it doesn’t matter. Bertie still finds the smell of coffee comforting, and the peppermint is wonderfully sweet and soothing.

“Thank you,” he pronounces softly, his stammer quite unnoticeable.

“Shall I read you something?” proposes Lionel. “It’ll distract you until you feel better.”

“Please do.”

Pretending to choose something at random, Lionel furtively moves his hand towards the mild ochre covers of the Limited Editions Club set of Shakespeare’s works.

He takes one out, opens it, and grins to himself.

“O good Antonio, forgive me your trouble,” he reads, his voice suddenly melancholy and sonorous.

His intonation changes magically into that of soft mellifluousness: “If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant.”

Bertie lets out a noise that’s half amusement and half distress.

“Sorry.” Still grinning, Lionel looks down at him. “Couldn’t resist it. Memories, you know! I’ll pick something else.”

He leafs through the tome, his fingers caressing the fragile pages lovingly.

“Ah, here,” he exclaims, and there’s laughter in his voice.

“You’ve found some other nonsense to mock me with,” Bertie says, still resentful.

“On the contrary.” Lionel raises his finger significantly. “Listen.

“He that is thy friend indeed,” he continues, with a certain sudden solemnity, “he will help thee in thy need.

“If thou sorrow, he will weep;

“If thou wake, he cannot sleep.

“Thus of every grief of heart

“He with thee does bear a part.”

Bertie tries hard not to smile and fails.

“I’m not sure a stomach ache counts as a grief of heart,” he mutters. “But thank you.”

  
II.

It is not a welcoming place. Splendidly beautiful, yes, but with a cold, deadly splendour. The wallpapers, thinks Lionel, could use a warmer colour - as it is, they’re a sort of frog green; not a very fitting shade for a royal residence.

A plane passes over the roof, and the floor under his feet vibrates with the low rumble of its engines. It is a late winter afternoon outside, troubled and endlessly grey.

He is admitted into the inner chambers after much fussing and checking of credentials.

Elizabeth isn’t there, but her hand is evident; the room he’s standing in has more life in it than any other place in the castle. Lionel notices a couple of drawings of penguins pinned to the dark blue baldachin of the bed.

He walks closer.

“Bertie?” he calls hesitantly, after clearing his throat. “You’ve sent for me.”

“Lionel.”

Unexpectedly, Bertie rises up and, despite Lionel’s gestures of protestation, marches right towards him.

He’s looking dreadful, dreadful. There’s the pallor and the thinness, which are only to be expected after a significant blood loss, but there’s also his expression. Lionel has seen this expression before, on more faces than he cares to count.

Perhaps for the first time in their acquaintance, Lionel is the one who’s utterly lost for words.

“Why,” he makes a helpless vague gesture, “why the penguins?”

“Ah.” Bertie’s ears blush, and he offers a faint smile. “Well. There’s a story behind that.”

He makes his way purposely towards the high vaulted window, his gait stiff and awkward. Moving obviously hurts him; he does look a little like a great sad penguin.

“They’re still searching for whomever d-did this,” comments Bertie. “But I’m informed it’s probably the IRA.”

“This is outrageous.”

“These things happen.”

Bertie’s dressed in his naval uniform, somewhat dubiously ironed. His broad angular shoulders under the epaulettes look tense.

“You shouldn’t force your recovery,” Lionel reproaches, closing the distance between them. “What’s with the swanky clothes?”

He’s rewarded with a frustrated huff.

“I have to be on my feet, the sooner the better,” Bertie gestures sharply towards the window. His argument is somewhat undermined by the fact that it’s past the curfew and the streets of the capital are perfectly empty.

“Ah, yes, it is always the same old tale,” says Lionel, watching Bertie from behind his glinting spectacles with melancholy eyes. “ _I have to be all right, I have to be strong. My country, my family, my elderly aunt needs me_ , cross out as appropriate.”

Bury this pain, hide these nightmares. Forget your wounds. For the sake of others, break yourself.

“Don’t mock me!” Bertie whirls around, his lips whitening with anger; then he suddenly stops.

“I am not mocking you,” Lionel answers in a low voice. His expression is infinitely sad. “God forbid.”

They stand like this for some time.

“I’ve brought you something.”

Lionel takes his black leather bag and slowly fishes out a small bi-winged marvel of balsa wood.

“It’s a Thomas-Morse S4,” he says, and looks at Bertie searchingly. “With metal flying wires. You could attach them if you’d like.”

Bertie’s shoulders sag, and his head is hung low. Something pitiful is happening to his face, his mouth all awry; he carefully takes the plane from Lionel’s hands, turns, and walks away.

“To get better is something you owe to yourself first,” Lionel says to Bertie’s back. “And to everyone else second. This country survived Henry VIII, so it will be just fine if you take off the blasted uniform and sleep for a while.”

Bertie obediently puts the plane on the bed covers and undoes the golden buttons of his coat.

A slight rustling can just be heard in the corridors outside, moving closer and closer - it’s the blackout curtains going down. The royal family is very particular about submitting to blackout regulations. A young servant silently slips into the room, and soon all is pitch black; Lionel can’t make out the tips of his own shoes until a small night lamp is switched on.

Haltingly, he makes his way towards the bed, sits on the edge, and produces a neatly folded package of silvery delicate wires.

“That’s for both wings,” he says.

Bertie takes a while to carefully sort the wires according to the length and lay them out on his lap.

“Elizabeth’s gone to visit the girls in Windsor,” he says, in a tone that’s half apology and half explanation. His hands work swiftly, bending and twisting the wires around the wings of the beautiful Thomas-Morse. He hardly has to think about it; he clearly knows exactly where every one of them has to go and why.

Somehow the whole construction is looking progressively more fragile. It’s all thinness.

“I am afraid,” Bertie says quietly and flatly, his eyes intent on the model. One of the wires produces a plaintive high-pitched sound. “Lionel, I’m afraid for them all.”

“I know.” Lionel blinks hard and stares into the gloom. He remembers the time when he could always comfort Bertie with his own quiet confidence, with his own belief in better times - but what good is his confidence now? “So am I.”

 _I’m afraid for you_ , he doesn’t say.

“Here,” Bertie tries for a smile, lifting the plane up. Lionel takes it and does a sort of dubious pirouette motion.

“That is not even remotely how biplanes fly,” Bertie says, a distinct if faint note of laughter in his voice.

The thing is very pretty - graceful and glittery like a dragonfly. It’s as good a symbol of hope as any, thinks Lionel.

 

III.

It is rather an odd feeling to have your own face stare at you from a newspaper page. Bertie peers curiously at the photograph - a hard mouth, calm and intelligent eyes; a slight frown. Is that really what he looks like?

The man holding the newspaper shifts on his bench, moving into the spot of sunlight that filters through the beech branches above.

“Funny thing, Lionel: I don’t quite recognize myself in that picture.”

Lionel fishes the glasses out of the poppy-adorned breast pocket of his warm grey jacket*, places them firmly on his nose, and scrutinizes the newspaper for a while.

“I don’t see why you should,” he says. “Looks like some stuffy old bastard to me.”

“Why, thank you,” laughs Bertie, and, for a wonder, sounds sincerely grateful.

He feels beautifully safe - in fact, even permits himself to push his hat to the back of his head and look around openly, observing his subjects with a great deal of interest. There’s a young girl in a plaid shawl walking down the alley; here’s a lady knitting something dreadfully like an ugly Christmas sweater, notwithstanding the fact that it’s the middle of the summer. The smell of baked goods wafts through the park from a small café that he knows had recently opened nearby. It feels good to know things like this.

His gaze returns to Lionel.

“Don’t look at me like I’m your guardian angel,” Lionel says a little gruffly. He’s turning away from Bertie, his face clouded with some distant memory.

There _is_ something familiar about this corner of the park. The arborvitae trees are no longer cut into smooth pyramids of green, and their branches stick out willy-nilly; one of the benches has been destroyed, leaving only an ugly shell crater in the ground; but it is the same place. Bertie remembers how it was before the War - clean and full of sunlight and morning fog.

“It’s funny, really, how much more enthusiastic I was about your coronation than you were,” comes Lionel’s voice.

Bertie isn’t nearly as good at saying things like _it’s all right, it’s all in the past_ \- in fact, he isn’t good at saying things, period - and so he offers a reassuring smile.

“I saw so many people suffer. I knew you were just the king this country needed, a gentle and compassionate man.” Lionel shrugs. The fingers of his gloved hand curl and uncurl a little, and he glances at Bertie hesitantly, as though seeking approval.

Bertie hastily grants this silent plea, linking his arm through Lionel’s. They stand up and slowly stroll down the alley, leaving the crater behind.

“I thought of how many lives I could affect through supporting you. I did not yet realize that it was neither my power nor my responsibility to help millions. But I understood soon enough that I needed, that I wanted above all else to help one particular man, better one particular life.” Lionel’s tone softens perceptibly. He takes his glasses off and starts wiping them with a needless meticulousness against the lapel of his jacket. “Especially since to me, this life had assumed such an… overwhelming importance.”

The girl in the shawl is walking back towards them, and she’s smiling with joy. Perhaps someone she loves came back safe; perhaps she’s glad to see the yellow narcissus flowers overgrowing the shell-torn grounds of the park; or perhaps it was something as simple as buying bacon and biscuits, which are no longer rationed.

Behind his back, Bertie can vaguely hear the knitting old lady talk to someone.

“Don’t you think, Peter,” she’s saying, “that the gentleman who just passed us looks an awful lot like the King?”

“Who?” answers a low male voice, a little gruff and distinctly amused, “the one walking arm-to-arm with some sort of shabby little fellow? By Jove, you say the funniest things, Maggie.”

Bertie presses Lionel’s hand and laughs as silently as he can. They turn a little to throw a glance at the pair; the man is short and stout, in his sixties, and wearing an outrageously blue shirt. He notices Lionel and Bertie looking at him and blushes with embarrassment. Bertie can’t quite stop laughing.

“See, Maggie, they’ve heard you and now they’re making fun of us,” the man mutters. “They look much more like each other, anyway.”

 

* * *

 

*The remembrance poppy, a symbol commemorating those who died in war, has been in use in Britain and its colonies since about 1921, and first became popular among combat vets. Since Lionel has a very personal experience with the military, I figure he’d wear a poppy in the aftermath of WWII.


End file.
